


our hearts told our heads to let go

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Category: Disobedience (2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, set post film, tw: discussion of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 01:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20055499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: the person on the other end of the line, the mysterious and desperate stranger that you had previously imagined attempting contact, is a stranger no more. no, the person calling you from a payphone isesti.





	our hearts told our heads to let go

you’re nursing a rapidly warming beer, rivulets of condensation growing along the curl of the bottle with each minute that the drink remains untouched atop your desk. music filters through your headphones, a carefully curated spotify playlist designed to allow maximum concentration upon the work at hand, whilst giving your otherwise unwieldly thoughts a focus. the computer in front of you – an imac pro that you spend more time with than anyone in your life – is displaying the end product of a shoot that wrapped in the early hours of this morning. since then you’d found yourself accosted by anthony twice, each time your boss presenting demands for updates as to when the final product would be available. it’s the promise of further contact by your overbearing and seemingly disconnected overlord that brings you to spending most of your day, and night, like this. 

there’s the beginnings of a headache pulsating at your temples and curving around the front of your skull, a result of too much screen time and not enough water, or food or sleep. in a distant bathroom cupboard, you know there’s a bottle of tylenol, however the pain killer will only be a temporary measure. true relief comes only from some sort of meal, a substantial amount of water and possibly several nights sleep. you look back at the photo stream being displayed and you let out a long sigh deciding then and there that anthony can wait one more night. you’ll be able to add the finishing touches in the morning before your brunch meeting with a set-designer for another upcoming shoot. 

leaning into your chair, you feel your back protest so many hours of terrible posture. there’s a deep-set ache in your joints that half a decade ago, would never have bothered you. you feel in desperate need of a shower, clean clothes, pizza and at least one beer that isn’t lukewarm. all of which require some form of movement or possible contact with other human beings. you are also considering the option of relocating to the couch and simply not moving for the rest of the night. there’s a half bottle of water on the coffee table adjacent to the remote and surely you could find something on netflix or on-demand that would send you to sleep sooner rather than later. 

your stomach takes this chance to rumble loudly, reminding you that option number two does not in any way satiate the hunger that’s resulted from spending most of the day doing anything but eating. this is a mess of your own making and that annoys you more than it should. with an exasperated sigh you reach past the warm beer, for your phone. it has spent most of the past three and a half hours face down on your desk, muted. there are certain perks that come with being oblivious to those trying to contact you – for one, the temptations of social media or candy crush are abated. two, you actually manage to get work done. 

it comes as no surprise that there are a couple of messages from anthony requesting status updates, another from cameron confirming brunch tomorrow, plus a series of snapchats from your friend laura. what catches your attention beyond any of those notifications, is a missed call. it’s the most recent, having happened only a minute ago. most intriguing is that in the space where the callers name should be is only 

**payphone.**

the single word is followed by an unfamiliar number. you blink a couple of times and debate the probability that this was simply a wrong number. it’s a depressing thought, the image of some poor person stranded by the last functioning payphone in the world, using their only quarters to make desperate contact and instead getting, well, you. with a thumb raised to swipe the notification away, you are distracted by a new notification appearing at the top of your screen. 

a voicemail. 

it’s a familiar symbol, reminiscent of old vhs tapes. it sits there, unmoving from your notification bar. intrigued and fully expecting two or so minutes of garbled background noise, or, more likely a voicemail definitely not intended for you, the reality of hearing – 

_“ronit, it’s me, it’s esti.”_

surprises you badly enough that your grip fails and the phone plummets to the rug beneath. the person on the other end of the line, the mysterious and desperate stranger that you had previously imagined attempting contact, is a stranger no more. no, the person calling you from a payphone is 

esti. 

surprised, shocked and scrambling, you reach down for your phone just in time to hear the end of esti’s message 

_“…obviously you’re busy. i realise i don’t even know if you’re in the country. but i’m at the airport. john f. kennedy airport, if you know where that one is. i-”_ there’s a pause, a swollen silence that stretches on and on until _“if you get this, i,”_ esti lets out a sad sounding half-laugh _“i’m at the airport. terminal seven.”_

the message ends and you’re left listening to the automated voice present you with a list of options. you replay the message, gripping the phone tightly and listening just as hard 

_“ronit, it’s me, it’s esti. i, well, i’m not sure exactly how to explain but”_ esti’s voice is thick with exhaustion and deeper, more innumerable emotions that ronit cannot pin in this exact moment _“well, i’m in new york. i’m at the airport. obviously you’re busy. i realise that i don’t even know if you’re in the country. but i’m at the airport. john f. kennedy airport, if you know where that one is. if you get this, i, i’m at the airport. terminal seven._

the message ends a second time and you’re left sitting there in a state of shocked disbelief. esti is here, in new york. she is standing at jfk. she is no doubt hoping that you’ll call her back or appear from amongst the crowds. you can hardly process that this is actually happening, keenly aware of the fact that something is terribly wrong. you caught the tension is esti’s voice, the sadness behind the exhaustion that seeped into every syllable. you have spent years remembering the way esti speaks, and her message, her unannounced presence here, tells you only that something has gone very, very wrong. 

sitting, perched on the edge of the chair, you’re caught in a spiral of racing thoughts. separate threads braiding and splitting – how to get to the airport, what has happened to esti, cancelling your brunch tomorrow. long minutes spent trapped in a web of your own concern and anxiety leave you breathless. all at it becomes abundantly clear that you need a plan, you need a loose course of action with which to approach this sudden shift in your evening. 

step one becomes change clothes. you’re not wearing a bra for one and while in the past you’ve gone to the bodega braless, you refuse to venture to the airport without such an undergarment. standing all at once sends a rush of blood from your head surging through the rest of your body and for long moments the world spins, your legs quake and you grasp the edge of the desk with a hand. then, right as your vision is beginning to blur at the edges, your apartment settles. you are able to walk in quick, long strides, to your bedroom and rifle through your wardrobe pulling on the first things that seem appropriate – but it’s only as you’re doing the buttons up on the black shirt you’ve chosen that you realise this is practically the same outfit you were wearing when you received the news of the rav’s death. perhaps it’s fitting that you’re wearing much the same clothes as the last time esti came crashing back into your life.

you’re in the process of collecting your keys, your phone and wallet when you realise you never tried calling the payphone back. like esti, you’re not sure that such a thing is possible, but you need to try. you snag your phone from where you’d left it on the desk and attempt to call back your most recent missed call. there are seconds of tense silence and then an error message informing you that the number you’re trying to reach is unavailable.

great. 

perfect. 

“fuck,” you curse, the word slipping out into the relative silence of your apartment. 

all you can picture now is esti standing alone at the airport. you can picture her lingering near the payphone just in case it rings and you’re on the other end of the line. you wonder how long she’ll wait. you wonder how long you have before she turns around and flies back to england. you’re sure that there are flights yet to take off, you’re sure that if esti wanted she could book a ticket and you would never see her. but she’s here, you tell yourself, she came all this way. she must know that you’ll come for her, that you’ll find her. 

you wish that you’d picked up. you wish that you’d picked up and told her that you’ll be there. 

all you can do now is hold your phone, hope she calls back and make a run for the airport. 

your heart is beating against your ribs with every step you take. it’s easy to hail a cab, even on a wednesday night. your mouth is unbearably dry from worry and you find yourself trapped in a warren of uncertainty and fear – each scenario that could explain esti’s presence here a shade darker than the last. you hate it. you hate your own dread, your own doubt. you hate thinking the worst of dovid when you know he holds nothing but love for esti. heartbreak, of course, but he would never hurt her. you know this, but your mind whispers to you lies and slander against him in desperate attempts to make sense of esti being here, unannounced. 

sitting in the taxi, forehead pressed against the glass with your gaze fixed on the shifting landscape sliding past you, you’re struck with the wish that you’d tried to keep in touch after leaving not even a month ago. you remember the weight of esti pressing herself against you, sharing one final kiss in the back of a cab. you remember the void when she pulled herself back and watched you leave, again. more than that you remember her tears, her trembling breath, you remember the touch of her hand on the cut of your jaw and you remember spending the entirety of that journey trying to memorise the moment. 

you wish you’d called. 

or wrote. 

or something. 

_anything._

except esti, without a cell phone, was nigh unreachable and you found yourself glad for the excuse. glad for the excuse because every time you would dial their landline, every time that you would stand there, with your finger hovering over the call button, you would think of dovid. you would think of your cousin and his heartbreak, his disappointment, his pain. you knew that just hearing your voice would spark that flame anew in him and the thought of hurting him further was more than you could take. 

or so you told yourself. 

either way, the consequences of your cowardice are presenting themselves to you now. 

you have no notion of what’s happened to esti. you have no idea what has pushed her to flee not just the country, but come to new york city, come to you. such steadfast uncertainty is disconcerting and your stomach swirls with it as the taxi continues on its trek to esti. 

esti. 

you’re consumed with thoughts of her. of the afternoon in the hotel room, not just of the sex you shared, but of her freedom in that moment. her freedom to be and be with you. the way she’d looked at you, held you, touched you are all seared into your brain. you clutch at the memories as the airport comes into view for the first time. all you want is to see her, hold her, see that she is okay and alright. never mind the deadline you’re facing, never mind the moving pieces of the rest of your life. forget it all. you’ll put it all on hold for esti, whatever the reason.

* * *

the arrivals level of terminal seven is busier than you anticipated. you hadn’t taken into account the sheer number of other planes that would have been arriving this late at night. you hadn’t counted on there being so many people loitering near the arrivals doors, through which their friends and family and everyone would emerge through. you can see people waiting with balloons and small children and flowers. you walk past people waiting with nothing but their hands shoved deep into their pockets, headphones in and a steady gaze fixed on the garish do not enter stickers affixed to so many of the doors. 

you scan the crowds quickly and unsurprisingly, do not find esti amongst the masses. she has no reason to wait here, no, despite heightened anxiety, you make a bee-line for an information desk. heading to it means passing the escalators to the departures level of the terminal. the sign gives you pause, stilling you in your tracks. what if? what if esti has already given up? what if she is upstairs in a queue, already waiting for a chance to buy a ticket? what if –

no. 

you stop yourself short and focus on making it to the information desk and scouting out the payphones. if, and only if, you did not find esti after that, then you could go upstairs. it was a semblance of a plan, and that would help you keep it together as you approached a friendly, albeit tired looking twenty-something at the information desk 

“hi,” the woman says “how can i help you?” 

“i’m looking for the payphones?” you ask, keenly aware of how ridiculous you sound, but this is a better option than some game of hide and seek “i think you still have some?” 

the woman laughs “yeah, yeah we do still have a couple. they’re down the long hallway to your right, by the restrooms. i can’t promise that they work though.” 

normally you would laugh, you would smile, but tonight you only have one thing on your mind. so, with a quick “thanks.” you’re moving away from the desk.

you refrain from running, although every fibre of your being demands that you do just that. the trade-off is, of course, the hallway is as long as promised. the crowds thin as you move away from the hum of the arrivals hall. you pass a starbucks, desks for enterprise and budget. the staff in these parts is as bareboned as the crowd, and the starbucks closed entirely. although you’re barely paying attention. your own impatience and concern have given you tunnel vision, looking for esti and esti alone along the ever-stretching corridor. 

just when you’re sure that you would never find the payphones or the bathrooms you come around a bend and – 

there,

you stop short. your heart is hammering in your chest and your hands relax from fists because there, leaning against the wall with nothing more than a backpack beside her, 

is esti. 

your breath catches in your chest as you soak in the sight of her. she looks pale and exhausted. her hair is natural, having grown since you last ran your hands through it. her frame is thin and maybe that should have been your first clue, but so rapt are you with esti’s presence that the detail slips past unnoticed. instead, you are caught up in the way esti looks – dressed in dark jeans and the jacket she was wearing the night she’d kissed you in the rav’s house for the first time in a decade or so. 

she is holding a book, not reading it, but holding it close against her thigh. the cover is a deep teal-blue, but the white lettering is too far away for you to make out from this distance. you let out a trembling exhale 

“esti?” you say, barely breathing, sure that if you speak she will disappear and this will have become some sort of terrible, nightmare-ish dream. 

at your voice, esti looks up, startled but not surprised “ronit,” she breathes, the moment her gaze sets upon you. her voice is so soft that even in this silence you would not have heard the utterance if not for being within arm’s reach “hi.” she adds. 

“hi,” you echo, standing there, staring, blinking. 

you’re at a loss for words. you don’t know what to say, finding yourself caught just staring, reading her, looking at her. you want to pull her into your arms, you want to kiss her gently. you want to do a thousand things, but in the end, in this moment, all you can think to do is reach up with a hand and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. your fingers brush against her skin, feather light, and you see the moment she feel your touch. her eyes flutter shut for a moment and she leans into you, an arm snaking around your hips as she pulls you in for a hug. 

there’s nothing quite like this moment, you realise, as you wrap your arms around esti’s frame. despite the fact that she’s shaking, despite the fact that one glance has confirmed for you that something is terribly wrong, esti fits perfectly in your arms. you caught esti’s red-rimmed eyes and how pale her face is, not to mention you’d judge that she hasn’t slept properly in weeks. more than any of that though is how, in your arms, esti feels delicate. it’s not a word you’ve ever attributed to her and you can’t explain why that’s what surfaces now in your mind, but it sticks and that scares you. 

you’ve never thought of esti as delicate before – quiet, pliant and resilient, sure – but never delicate. 

esti grips at you, and words escape your lips before you think of what to say, acting on a more basic instinct “you’re here.” you murmur, your lips brushing the curl of esti’s ear “i’ve got you.” 

“i-“ esti starts, her forehead tucked against your collarbone. she seems to struggle for words, you feel her start to step back, start to pull away. 

you let her, curling a hand around her wrist lightly, so she can break contact if she wants. 

esti doesn’t. 

she lingers. she looks down, looks back up at you and opens her mouth to speak, but words fail her again and you catch the way her eyes are glittering in the stale light of the airport. 

“it’s okay.” you promise, trying to reassure in less words that’s she doesn’t have to explain, not here. not now. 

esti steps back into your arms and there’s a choked half sob that catches in her throat and tears at your heart. you hug her again, tighter, fiercer. there’s a stinging in your own eyes, esti’s palpable pain combined with your roiling emotions brings tear-blurred vision. clueless as to the cause, all you can do in this moment is be here with her, hold her, comfort her. 

“i’m sorry,” esti breathes, her tears soaking through the curl of your scarf “i’m sorry.” 

her apology makes you ache your trace a finger along her jaw, tucking it under her chin and coaxing her to look up at you “don’t apologise.” you tell her “not for coming, not for being here.” 

esti hiccups, coughs and wipes her cheeks with a hand “i-“ she starts, stops, stumbling over words reluctant to show themselves “you came.” she says, and her tone does not carry surprise, it is rather a statement of fact mixed with sheer relief at your presence “you’re here.” 

“i’m here.” you say, a hand stroking down esti’s back “i’m here. i’m sorry i didn’t pick up your call.” 

“i was so scared you wouldn’t be in town.” esti says, speaking to your shoulder “i-i needed you to be here.” she pauses for a tentative moment “i need you. am i allowed to say that? that i need you?” 

her words hit you hard, and you want to curl around her again but you force a breath “you’re allowed.” you promise, running a hand through her hair “you’re allowed.” you repeat, bending down and scooping her backpack off the floor before looking back at her “you’ve got me.” you add, meeting her gaze. esti seems on the precipice of tears still, delicate and shaking. she reaches for your hand and laces her fingers with yours before breaking your gaze “there are cabs outside.” you tell her, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her temple . 

you want to get her home. you want to get her to the quiet and the safety of your apartment. you want to coax her into explaining what’s happened, what’s gone wrong. you know that if it had been about dovid – if something had happened or he was hurt – esti would have said by now, she would have told you with a phone call. except esti is here, her cheeks are wet with tears, and she is holding your hand. 

outside the terminal they are greeted by a line of waiting taxis’ and esti lets out a sharp and unexpected laugh “they’re all yellow.” she says, “like the movies.” 

you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as the pair of you approach the taxi rank “they are,” you confirm “almost every single one of them.” 

“how odd.” esti comments and you’re about to ask why, but then you’re being ushered into the front taxi and the chance escapes away from you. 

in the darkness of the backseat esti finds your hand to hold. she reaches across the space between you and slides her hand down your arm. you, knowing what she’s seeking, turn your palm up. she grips at you again, as if letting go another time may let you disappear. you squeeze her hand, not sure what you’re saying, perhaps reassurance for that’s what you feel when esti squeezes your hand in response. 

she is here. 

you are here.

* * *

“this is where you live?” esti asks in muted amazement as she steps out of the cab with her head tipped back, seeking to see the roof of your building. 

it’s a hard ask considering just how many stories there are. 

“it is,” you confirm, handing bills over to the cabbie “keep the change.” you tell him, stepping away from the curb “tenth floor.” you tell her “not the best view in the building, but it’s good enough.” you say, slipping your hand into hers once again. 

it’s as if the drive through new york has given esti temporary life. as if the lights and the sounds of the city have caught her by surprise and for just a little while, she’s a tourist. a siren wails past, a blur of red lights, and esti turns to watch it fly by “it’s so loud here.” she comments “louder than london.” 

“you get used to it.” you tell her, remembering having the same thought when you first moved to the city. you had been dumbfounded by its size, its life. you had been intimidated by the sheer number of people and the pace at which everything sped on around you. 

a decade and so on, you’re used to it now. 

“it’s quieter inside.” you add. 

the near silent whirring of the elevator door shutting is deafening and whatever momentary distraction the city had provided to esti, seems to be rapidly fading. you press the button for the tenth floor and hear esti taking a wet, shaking breath. she’s standing in the corner of the elevator, her arms wrapped around herself and tears in her eyes. she’s biting her lip in a way that tells you she’s fighting back tears. you feel your stomach catch at the sight and as the elevator jolts into motion, you step into esti’s space. you slide a hand around her waist and press a kiss to her forehead “it’s okay.” you murmur “esti, it’s okay.” you say, savouring the way her name tastes on your tongue. 

the disjointed pattern of esti’s breathing disintegrates further and you’re sure you can feel your heart breathing as she tucks her head against your shoulder once again. it’s all you can do to keep an arm wrapped around esti, and watch, in the reflection on the mirror wall, as the floors tick by 

_six,_

esti tears are soaking into the shoulder of your shirt. her cries are quiet, but her body is trembling. 

_seven,_

you’re sure that if someone enters the elevator now you’d have to kick them out. you’re holding esti, gripping her and keeping your own tears at bay. 

_eight,_

“nearly there,” you promise “we’re nearly there.” 

_nine,_

you’re choking on your own tears that threaten to fall. you’re biting them back and you’re ignoring the sick feeling in your stomach that comes with esti being in so much pain. 

finally, finally, 

_ten_

slides onto the screen and the elevator shudders to a halt. the door slides open and thankfully, thankfully there are none of your neighbours waiting outside. 

it’s not that they’re unpleasant. it’s that esti is crying and you’re near tears yourself. it’s that you don’t have an explanation for what’s going on and, 

you meet no one on the journey to your door. 

when you are finally inside, when the door is being shut and the deadbolt has been slotted into place, you let out a soft exhale. being home is a good thing. being in this space grounds you. for esti however, it seems as if she barely notices where she is, and you walk over to where she is standing, stock still. you stand in front of her, reaching carefully for her hands, intertwining them. the question is rising in your throat as you judge if now is the right time to ask it. esti looks up at you and you catch sight of her trembling lower lip. 

you can’t hold back any more. 

“esti,” you breathe “esti, what happened?” your voice is barely above a whisper, but she hears you. 

you know she hears you because esti ducks her head and this time the tears are coming thick and fast. her barely controlled breathing shatters into sobs and she looks unsteady on her feet, as if they’re about to give way. you step forward, the sick feeling twisting in your gut as you wrap your arms around her, holding her up, holding her close. you press a kiss to her temple. you curl a hand into her hair, letting the other run up and down her back in measured arcs. 

there is something especially terrible about seeing esti like this. it reminds you of the night that you snuck away with her to the park and explained that you were leaving. however as gut wrenching as that night sits in your mind, this is worse. whatever has happened is worse than the night before you uprooted. of all the times esti has cried with you, in front of you, none of them combined compare to this. these tears are from a deep and terrible pain that seems to be threatening to consume esti whole. 

you hold her, an anchor in a storm you cannot yet understand. you had known something was wrong the moment esti’s message reached you. you had known it would not be good news. yet, there is a special type of horror that settles in your stomach as you see esti, your friend, your lover, your love, this distraught. you know few things that would ruin esti like this, and all of them leave you feeling sick and unsteady. 

seconds bleed into minutes and minutes could bleed into hours but you’re not paying attention. you’re focusing on esti, on the way she seems to be calming. her sobs have softened and while the tears still fall, she speaks into your shirt – but you do not miss her words. 

“i,” she starts, stops, continues “i lost the baby.” she says finally. 

your stomach drops through the floor and you can’t help the pain gasp “oh esti,” you murmur, collecting her back into your arms as more tears spill down her cheeks “when did it happen?” you ask 

“a week ago,” esti says, her voice thick and wavering “there, there was bleeding. so much blood. dovid took me to the hospital.” she says, stepping out of your arms and running a hand through her hair “they said,” she is looking past you now, at your kitchen with the black granite countertops “they called it an early miscarriage.” she speaks even as she cries. 

“i’m sorry.” you breathe “i’m so sorry.” 

esti presses her lips together and nods, closing her eyes and fighting back another wave of tears. she takes a wet breath and speaks again “they said it’s not uncommon. they said it can just happen sometimes. that it can’t be predicted all the time.” she meets your gaze and this time her heartbreak is so much clearer.

your head is spinning. 

esti had a miscarriage. she was pregnant and now she is no longer. it’s a level of hurt and pain that you can only begin to imagine. it makes you ache for her, for dovid. 

“do you want to sit down?” you offer, afraid that esti might collapse if she doesn’t find a seat in the near future. 

“i don’t,” esti says “i don’t know. i-“ she draws a sharp breath and you touch her elbow lightly. 

“sit.” you coax, leading, guiding her to the couch where at least if her legs give way, it won’t matter. 

she sits. 

you slide into the space next to esti. you wrap an arm around her shoulders and esti leans into you “after it happened,” she says “after the doctors told us, dovid was distraught. the community, they, they supported us, him. but it was too much. people were always around. there was no room to breathe, no room to understand what had happened.” esti is staring at the tv, looking past it, not really seeing at all “dovid coped by trying to say it was for a reason, but hearing that, i,” she swallows hard “eventually i couldn’t be there anymore. the bleeding had stopped so i just, i booked a ticket and i left.” 

at first you say nothing, you give esti the space to keep talking, to keep on sharing this burden “i couldn’t be around all those people who couldn’t understand what i was feeling. if they could have told me i deserved it, they would have. they-“ 

“you don’t,” you say sharply, cutting her off “you don’t deserve this. no one deserves this.” you tell her 

“they all know.” esti says “about dovid and i separating. i assume they know about you, and me. and what happened while you were back.” 

you’re sure they all know, that much you’ve been certain of since you left. 

“they all know and they’re all disappointed in me and,” esti shakes her head “i was suffocating there. and when i thought about leaving, you, you seemed like the only place i could be. so i came here. i, i didn’t even think it through, i just left, i ran.” 

ran here. 

to you. 

a thought strikes and with fingers still playing at the swell of esti’s shoulder you ask gently “did you tell anyone?” 

“i didn’t see anyone.” esti admits “i didn’t want them to be able to chase me, to stop me.” 

you think of dovid, an ocean away and no doubt consumed by concern. you think he deserves to know where she is. you think he deserves to know that she is safe and looked after, that she is not, 

you do not let your mind wander too far in that direction. you focus instead on esti pressed against your side. 

“dovid will be concerned.” you say as neutrally as possible, you know he cares for esti, loves her still. 

for long seconds, esti does not speak. if not for the fact that she stays pressed against your side you would have feared of saying the wrong thing. instead, when esti does finally speak, her words are measured and certain 

“i don’t think i can face him.” she says. 

you swallow hard. there is no part of you that wants to speak to dovid, but “would you like me to speak to him?” you ask, knowing that for esti, you would do just that. 

“you don’t have to.” 

“he deserves to know you’re safe.” you remind gently. 

“he does.” she agrees “you’ll speak to him?” 

you would really rather not, but 

“yes,” you tell her “i’ll tell him you’re here, with me. i’ll tell him that you’re safe and that when you’re ready, you’ll call and speak with him?” the last part of your sentence is more a question than anything else, but with esti’s nod you stand. 

you stand and migrate to the kitchen where your phone is resting atop the breakfast bar.

you take it, nerves fluttering through your stomach. 

you really don’t want to do this. 

you dial dovid’s number, feeling esti’s eyes on you. you take to pacing because it’s easier to do this when she’s moving, instead of standing still and letting the army of butterflies in your stomach run rife. you press the call button and close your eyes feeling a little bit sick. 

you hate this. 

fuck. 

the phone rings exactly once and then – 

_ “hello?”_ the man on the other end of the line is unmistakably dovid, his voice worn and on edge. 

“dovid,” you say “it’s ronit.” you barely stop to take a breath, not wanting to give him a second to interject “esti is with me.” 

you hear a long sigh, but can’t pin if it’s relief or something else _“with you?”_ dovid asks, his confusion clear _“and where are you?_

“new york.” 

dovid makes sound somewhere between a surprised cough and a choke _“esti is with you, in new york city?”_

“yes.” you confirm “she’s here, with me, in my living room.” 

dovid murmurs something that you don’t quite catch, and then he asks _“can i speak to her?”_ his tone a mixture of pressing hard and pleading. 

you glance at esti, eyes red, cheeks with tears, and stand firm “no,” you tell him “she came here for a reason, dovid. i wanted you to know that she’s safe. but she’s not ready to speak to you yet.” 

_“how do i know that’s what she wants and you’re not just saying that.”_ dovid bites, his voice a sharp edge. 

“do you really think i would do that.” you press “to esti?” it’s an important distinction, because he knows how you feel about esti, he knows, even though he doesn’t like it. 

_ “no.”_ he sighs _“you would not.”_ there’s another pause and then _ “she told you.”_ it is not a question, it is a statement of fact. 

“yes.” you reply “she did. she, i’ll look after her, okay? but right now she wants space, she needs space. she’ll call you when she’s ready.” 

dovid lets out another long, agonising breath and then “okay.” he says “okay. if that’s what she wants. at least, at least she is with someone who will take care of her.” his last words are said with a hint of reluctance, but he says them all the same “look after her,” he urges, and then the line goes dead. 

you stand there for a moment, feeling nervousness recede into the background. you stand there, breathing steady until “ronit,” esti murmurs, and it sounds as if her voice is a million miles away “ronit?” esti prompts again. 

“he,” you start “he’ll give you the space you want.” you say “until you’re ready.” 

you’re exhausted. you can only imagine how esti feels. 

you move back across the room and sit down on the couch, sinking back into the cushions “thank you,” esti says “for doing that, for speaking to him” her hand covers yours. 

you look over at her and reach with a hand and using the pad of your thumb to wipe the stray tears “of course.” you tell her as she leans into the palm of your hand “i love you.” you say before you can think better of it. 

esti closes her eyes but does not shy away. 

“i love you.” she echoes “i, i wanted to tell you sooner but,” she struggles for words and trails off. 

“you don’t have to explain yourself.” you tell her “not to me. not to anyone. you’re here and i’m here and that won’t change.” it would, they both know it will, but right now you want to give her the promise that it won’t. that what they have now is forever. 

and maybe on some level it is, coming in and out of each other’s lives with no great consistency. you would take that over having nothing at all. 

“i’m so tired.” esti says “i’ve been so tired, but sleep has been so hard to find.” 

“maybe you’ll sleep better here.” you offer. 

“maybe.” she nods. 

“you would feel better after a shower.” you suggest “and i can change my sheets.” 

“you don’t have to do that.” 

“i don’t have to,” you agree “but i want to.” 

there’s a drawn-out silence and then “part of me feels silly for having come here.” 

“do you regret it?” you ask carefully. 

“no,” esti looks over at you “no, of course not. but you and i, we, i have no claim over you. i didn’t warn you. i didn’t pack. i-“ she looks away, biting her lip and shaking her head. 

“esti,” you say, “esti, can you look at me?” she shakes her head, but you wait. you will always wait for her, and eventually, she looks at you. her eyes are soft, but there’s a hesitancy present “i’m glad you’re here. not under these circumstances, but i want you here.” you do not say 

_i’ve always wanted you here,_

but instead you continue on a different track “we can buy you clothes tomorrow and i have more than enough vacation time at work built up.” you know that anthony will throw a fit, and you wont blame him – but this is more important. you reach for esti’s hand “you can stay here as long as you need. as long as you want.” 

“you’re too kind to me.” esti murmurs. 

“no,” you counter just as gentle “i’m not. this is what you deserve, a space where you can process and grieve and let yourself feel all the things you need to feel. if this is that space, it’s yours. you need to be able to let yourself feel because the longer you fight it, or can’t process, the harder it becomes to face.” 

“you sound so wise.” esti says, looking up at you, studying your face. 

“a lesson hard learned.” you reply, and in esti’s silence, you continue on “after the rav kicked me out, it’s not the same as what you’re going through, but it was a loss. it was like he had died then, i knew there was no forgiveness coming from him because i wasn’t sorry for what i had done. but after i left i spent so long not dealing with it, with what i felt. i got myself in a lot of trouble.” 

“trouble?” 

you swallow hard “nothing serious.” you tell her, “the wrong people, the wrong crowd. for a while.” you sigh and look away “i bottomed out, dealt with myself, focused on my career and made some new friends. it wasn’t easy but it would have been easier if i hadn’t spent so long ignoring what i felt and pretending i was fine.” 

“how did you start dealing with, all of it?” esti asks, and you feel her eyes on you. 

“well,” you start, “i let myself miss people. i let myself miss my dad, miss dovid, miss you.” you glance at her “it felt terrible, being homesick. feeling alone. but once i was in that space, i could figure out how to move on.” 

“and did you?” 

“move on?” 

esti nods, her fingers tangled with yours. 

“from most of it.” you acknowledge “not all of it. not you.” 

“not me.” 

“not you.” you nod “i couldn’t. didn’t want to. so i held on to us.” 

“are you glad you did?” esti asks carefully. 

“yes.” you tell her “i am. i – it brought me back to you. and here you are.” 

“here i am.” esti murmurs, and you’re not sure if she’s speaking to you until “i think i’ll take that shower.” she says. 

“of course,” you reply “i’ll show you how to work it.”

* * *

you are sitting at your computer, sending the last of a flurry of emails rearranging your schedule for the next week. you don’t know how long esti is staying, but you want to give her plenty of time to get her feet under her again. anthony is already throwing a fit, but you don’t particularly care. you’re not answer his calls, not at this late hour, and not for a couple of days at the earliest. you hear behind you, approaching footsteps and you turn in your seat to see esti, dressed in some of your old sweatpants and a hoodie. her hair is damp and ruffled, but she looks less haunted. 

“better?” you ask, pressing send before turning your computer off. 

“better.” esti nods, curling herself up on the edge of the couch, her eyes catching on the duvet and pillow you’ve prepared for yourself on the armchair “am i putting you out of bed?” she asks. 

“i’m not letting you sleep on the couch.” 

esti pauses, and the silence builds towards something, a destination unknown “what if,” she pauses, “what if i wanted to share a bed with you? to be near you.” 

you do not try and name the patter that your heart takes at those words, instead nod “of course.” you tell her “of course.”

* * *

the bed is cool against the warmth of your bedroom. a rectangle of light filters in through a gap in the curtains, sending a splash of light across the duvet. underneath, you lay, with esti in your arms. her breathing is rhythmic and slow. it had not taken long for her to fall asleep, but you are finding it harder to follow suit. 

your head is spinning with the whirlwind events of the past few hours – events that have culminated in this, in esti being here, in your arms. you almost don’t believe it. you worry that this is some dream and in a few hours your alarm will ring and esti will be gone and none of this will have happened. 

in your arms, esti shifts and lets out a soft breath, her eyes fluttering open briefly. she seems barely awake, but when her eyes meet yours a soft smile spreads across her lips. 

it’s the first time she’s smiled since you picked her up from the airport. 

and for now, 

for now that smile on her lips is enough. you know it’s real, you know she’s here. she’s solid and present as you press a kiss to her temple and she exhales once again. 

this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i fell in love with this film only a week ago, and this idea came to my brain one night as i was in bed. i hope i've done it justice. 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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